


Bound Together

by Jet44



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neal's anklet, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8366542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jet44/pseuds/Jet44
Summary: Sara fetishizes Neal's anklet, and the topic swings from sex to Peter, and back to sex.... with Peter. Neal realizes he's falling for his handler. After an undercover operation goes bad, Neal is blamed. Miserable, he gets into a fight with Peter over the anklet and hidden emotions are revealed on both sides. Can Neal redeem himself in the eyes of the FBI, and is a sexual relationship anything but wishful thinking?For the 5th Annual Caffrey-Burke Day. Two-part fic with the second almost ready to post.Content: There's plenty of attraction, physical contact, and love in this fic, but for better or worse, there's no sex. This is pre-slash, and all that entails.





	1. Chapter 1

**SARA**

Neal was flat on his back, completely naked on the bed. He grinned when he saw her startle, eyes twinkling, and gave his hips a little wiggle.

And oh, _God_ was this guy too hot to be real. The perfect body was....nice. Very nice. But it was the playful, spirited, irrepressible grin that made her breath catch. And the tender, romantic, completely sensual way he touched her.

“I didn’t know this gig came with a hot innkeeper,” she said.

"Yes, you did."

Sara sighed. “Caffrey, I was having a good hair day.” And then she yanked her shirt off and hopped up onto the bed.

There was something odd about the picture though. There was a carefully accidental piece of sheet covering one part of his body. His left ankle.

Sara realized she rarely saw it, remembered all the times he saw Neal shirtless - but never in shorts. It was also the one part of his body she’d never been encouraged to explore. She slipped a finger under it and pulled it towards her. “Caffrey, are you embarrassed by this?”

He looked at her, not wanting to answer. Sighed. “It’s not exactly a turn-on, you know.”

She had to chuckle. “Actually - I think it’s kind of hot. I do get turned on by your anklet. I had to watch Peter put it on you the other day, and - uh - I really hope he didn’t see my face.”

He stared at her. “Seriously? I was cringing, thinking ‘she’ll never want to sleep with me again.’ The thing’s a modern-day shackle.”

“Why do you think it’s hot?” retorted Sara.

More staring.

“Oh, come on, Caffrey. I know you have a kinky streak in there somewhere. You’re too much fun not to. Yes, it is a modern-day shackle. But it doesn’t hurt you, it’s hot-looking, and completely fucking adorable to see perfect, on-top-of-the-world Neal Caffrey actually have to submit to something.”

Neal wrinkled his nose. “I don’t have to. I can cut it in five seconds and be in the Amazon jungle two days later.”

“Again. Adorable. Sweet. Hot. You, staying shackled, out of loyalty to your stern, kindhearted FBI agent? Live with it, Caffrey. The thing’s sexy as hell.”

Neal’s grin was real again, and he gave her a small, thrilled kiss on the lips and kicked the sheet off the bed. “I like you.”

“You damn well better, Caffrey.”

“So when you said ‘fucking’ adorable....did you happen to mean that literally? Please?” said Neal.

“You’ll have to convince me,” teased Sara.

Neal took the tip of her finger delicately between his teeth and played with it with his tongue. This was Neal, sensual, exploring contact and touch in all its forms. Gentle, rough, playful, serious.

She got the impression it wasn’t even all about sex or foreplay with him. He was curious. He loved intimacy, and touch, and sex was the only socially acceptable format for that. He was the most tactile person she’d ever met, reveling in and melting in response to touch. She caressed the soft, firm ripples and lines of his chest, and she almost expected him to start purring, his expression was so deeply content.

“Can I - look at the anklet?” She wondered where her hesitation came from, with both of them stark naked on the bed, reveling in the intimacy.

“Yes,” said Neal, in a small voice.

Because it was real. Because it was something that had great effect on his life. Because his eyes held a serious note when he said yes.

From how it bruised her up, she imagined it must be uncomfortable for him. But the hard lines were all on the outside. The inside surfaces were smooth, and there was give to the thing. This was designed, very carefully, not to hurt the person wearing it. It was scary, though, that there was no buckle she could undo to take it off him.

There were marks on his skin under it. Light depressions. She shivered. “This thing puts constant pressure on you?”

Neal nodded. “It’s like a watch band. Not unpleasant at all.”

She could feel it snug, pressing against her finger.

"The first one was looser. Drove me nuts.”

She wanted to take it off. Beautiful Neal Caffrey was stretched out naked on the bed before her, soft skin and toned muscles and brilliant blue eyes full of life, his body a work of art she could look at for hours. And interfering with all of that like a badly rendered marker on a priceless canvas was this huge cold black thing she wanted to claw off him.

When he was dressed, and she caught a glimpse of it, it looked cool. It was a turn-on. It was part of him when he was dressed, slick Neal Caffrey with his perfectly fitted suits, so well dressed that even his tracking anklet was stylish. But when he was naked, he should be naked. It stood out in stark relief. Neal looked ....sad. Serious.

She traced a line around one of his taut brown nipples and down the side of his chest with her fingers and felt sick. “I’m sorry I fetishized painful parts of your life. That was - unthinking and awful of me.”

“It’s interesting,” said Neal, his expression open. “I’d give a lot to be able to fetishize the anklet.”

“It really bothers you?”

Neal shrugged. “Believe me, I’m grateful to this infernal device. I know I belong in prison right now. It symbolizes freedom and friendship and loyalty. As long as I think of it that way ....It’s - like you said, a modern-day shackle. One that Peter takes this unholy glee in putting on me. It hurts, just the way being handcuffed hurts.”

“Really not a sub, huh?” She was a little disappointed, handcuffing Neal Caffrey being at the top of her “maybe someday” sexual wishlist.

Neal glanced at her. “I can be. I’m not blind to the dynamic between me and Peter. It’s not submitting that bothers me. It’s - if you read some of those old British mystery novels, the detectives will arrest a murder suspect and what they _threaten_ the suspect with is being handcuffed if they won’t cooperate. Like it’s this horrible indignity no rational person would want forced on them. I know it’s automatic procedure now, but to me it - and the anklet - feel like a slap in the face. Like they feel I’m such a horrible, dangerous, uncooperative person that I literally have to be chained up.”

“And the anklet?” asked Sara.

“Doing this job, staying with Peter -- that’s a choice. Anklet or not, I’m a fugitive with a very unpleasant future in the US if I run. I get that monitoring helps control me, and controlling me is a thing I’ve agreed to let Peter do. But emotionally, the main function the anklet serves is to tell me every minute of every day that I can’t be trusted to so much as go to the store without law enforcement oversight.”

“An argument could be made that you can’t be,” said Sara.

“It could,” agreed Neal with a little smile. “There’s -- a whole lot more messed up angle.” He swallowed hard and looked like he wasn’t sure he should tell her. “I love it. I absolutely love feeling this thing on my ankle. Ah -- physical contact isn’t allowed in prison except for the COs patting you down, restraining you, or forcing you to comply with an order.”

“Really?” She was startled. “Huh.”

“Everyone sneaks in a hug or a pat here and there, but basically it’s four years where nobody touches you out of affection. Peter’s not very nice verbally, but he’s physically the most affectionate, reassuring guy imaginable. Right after I got out, the anklet was humiliating me and irritating and just driving me nuts. He noticed, called me into his office, and ....”

Neal looked sheepish, and Sara had to prod him to continue. “I’ve seen that side of him too. It’s sweet.”

“He ended up -- long story short -- just holding my ankle and patting me and stroking under the band of the anklet, and it was so warm and so reassuring and -- it melted me, completely. It wasn’t a woman who first touched me when I came out of prison, it was Peter.”

“I’m jealous,” teased Sara.

“The anklet’s always there, and when I feel it, it reminds me of how caring and sweet that was. It’s like Peter’s there with me, with his hand on my ankle. That’s put me to sleep at peace more times than I can count.”

Sara kissed the soft skin on the inside of his elbow and wanted to cry. Who could have guessed that Neal was this sensitive? Or that he’d be willing to show her this side of him?

She closed her eyes tight and pressed her face into that soft crook of his arm, willing away tears. _Do not fall in love with Neal Caffrey. Do not fall in love with Neal Caffrey._ This kind, gentle, beautiful, brilliant, sensitive guy is a professional confidence man. He’s a career criminal wearing a damn tracking anklet.

He stroked her hair gently, and kissed the back of her head. His breath hot on her skin sent a shiver down her spine, and an ache began inside her upper thighs. 

“Sorry,” whispered Sara, looking up. “I think I just made this not-very-sexy.”

"You’re the one with the anklet fetish,” said Neal, grinning and kissing her on the tip of her nose.

“Oh, come on,” said Sara. “Don’t tell me the other girls you’re with don’t get off on it just a little.”

He fell silent for a while. “I’m not with many girls. Ankleted felon and known con artist isn’t the coveted sexual demographic you might imagine.”

“Oh, come on. Fucking _Ted Bundy_ has groupies who’d come bang him in prison," said Sara. "You can have practically any woman you want, Charming Bad Boy.”

“I love women,” said Neal. “Too much to use random ones as sex toys. The women I want, really want, don’t come around that often.”

She ran her fingers down the depression at the center of his chest to the top of utterly perfect abs. Of course he would say something perfect like that. Innocent Sara wanted to add it to the reasons Neal wasn't just a smoldering bad boy. Worldly Sara knew it was a perfect line for a con artist trying to break into her heart.

But was he? Neal wasn't sexually needy like many men. There wasn't much he wanted that he couldn't have, including her.

She kissed him, and stroked his cheek gently. Neal's eyes half-closed in enjoyment. She’d been instrumental in sending him to prison. Peter had caught him, arrested him, damn well sent him there himself. And this man held no resentment.

“Peter really does like you, and care about you, doesn’t he?”

Neal smiled, something more subtle and sincere than his usual dazzle. “Yes. He does.” 

“Why do you think he got you out?” she asked. “I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t have trusted you.”

“Neither did he,” said Neal. It was said with great affection. “He likes a challenge. I like _being_ a challenge.”

“He liked _you_.”

Neal nodded. “I was using him, at first. We both knew it. But he cared anyway, and I liked knowing one person who was truly honest and decent. I found I trusted him, and that was something special. It changed a lot.”

"Are you and Peter in love?" she asked in a whisper.

Neal blinked. "Uh-"

"There's something a hell of a lot deeper and messier than what meets the eye, I know that much," said Sara.

"It's not like that," said Neal. "No, we're not fucking each other at the office."

"Not what I asked," said Sara. "Are you in love?"

"Peter's straight, so am I," said Neal.

"Still not what I asked."

Neal closed his eyes and was silent. Sara's heart skipped when moisture pooled in the corner of one closed eye and started inching down the side of his nose.

"It doesn't matter," Neal whispered finally. "If I were.... nothing could ever, ever come of it."

* * *

 

**NEAL**

Neal gulped. That was treading into such taboo territory, it couldn't really be answered. Such taboo territory that serious pondering of the possibility was off the table. If there was one thing that could end careers, friendships, and marriages, it'd be a single misstep in that department.

And the truth was he loved Peter far too much to take even a shred of a chance. He loved working with Peter, fighting with Peter, being chased by Peter, eating dinner with Peter, hugging and being hugged by Peter.... their partnership came with a caring and passion and conflict and even intimacy that far outmatched most romantic relationships he'd been in.

What exactly was he supposed to say to her?

_There are times I've looked at him, and had to look away because being aroused by the image was only a few seconds off. When he's tired and his hair is ruffled and his coat is off, and he's wearing an adorably mediocre shirt with his shoulder holster strapped over it._

_When he's on the trail of something that brings out the little kid on a treasure hunt part of his personality._

_Uncomfortably, when he's utterly focused and confident arresting someone._

_When he chooses me to be his backup on a night stakeout and grabs me by the sleeve when I argue, and drags me roughly into the elevator and a much gentler hand ends up in the small of my back. And I stay there close to his side where I'm happiest until the door opens and I make him walk away first._

When Peter looked at him with soft brown eyes filled with affection and caring and understanding, Neal found himself melting on the spot. The surge of warm joy he felt when he and Peter walked into the office together in the morning felt an awful lot like being in love with someone.

"There's something powerful there," admitted Neal softly. "But it's never been sexual."

"Because it's not permitted to be?" asked Sara.

"I wouldn't even go that far," said Neal. It was honest, in its way. His thoughts about Peter were curiosity, not unrequited fantasy. If Peter found himself with the same thoughts, he'd hide them in an abandoned warehouse with about ten padlocks on the door to avoid violating Neal's trust and friendship.

The things that were annoying were really, really annoying, too. His briefing voice, trying to project confident leadership and grating at Neal's eardrums instead. _Talking, Peter. It's called talking, not giving the state of the union address._

Taunting Neal with the miasma of deviled ham sandwiches and sitting down sweaty on his couch. _On what planet does "completely disgusting" equate to "fun and games with friends"?_

Baseball. That one's a tiny bit endearing, and his history as a player is impressive. _But why does he have to listen to it on a daily basis, and is there any way I can break just one station on a car radio?_

Denying requests just because he could. Interfering in his romantic activities.....

Huh.

Jealous? Could he possibly....

Neal's heart beat faster at the possibility.

No. Surely not. Peter was a pain in the ass because he loved being a pain in the ass, nothing more.

Mental phrasing check, Caffrey?

He had to snicker to himself, and his cheeks warmed.

"You know, if you keep asking me questions about my FBI handler while I'm all turned on by the presence of a hot little insurance investigator, you're going to make me a very sexually confused con man."

"Just so you know, I'm not threatened by bisexual men," said Sara.

Neal rolled his eyes. "That does it, then. You, me, and the Burkes, tomorrow night at eight."

Sara twisted up her nose and mouth. "Uh - I don't find Peter attractive at all."

"You.... don't?" Neal chewed his lower lip, puzzled. How could she not? "Do you like him? Not sexually, but as a person?"

"He's growing on me. That does not, however, mean I want to screw him."

Neal blinked. If she didn't hate him for some reason -- how could any woman not find Peter attractive?

_Oh._

He found Peter.... appealing, and he was projecting. But really, how could she not? Peter was just.... sort of perfect. He was a just delightful mix of tough and soft and playful and serious and sweet and cranky, with brown hair just begging to be petted, and brown eyes to get lost in, and he was big in a perfectly solid but not oversized way, and he smelled nice.

_Oh, God. I have a crush on my arresting agent._

People did that sometimes, didn't they? Started as platonic friends, and friendship intensifying into love, and love into sexual passion? Did things like that ever happen to mostly-straight guys with wives and incredibly hot house guests? When one of them was a felon and the other an FBI agent?

Well, opposites attract, right?

It made Neal realize what a careful relationship his and Peter's was. It was an affectionate, comfortable, conflicted, loving, and very, very careful one. They both adored the physical affection and openness, the conflict that was a constant dance with flirtation....

Do not flirt with Peter.

Do not flirt with Peter's wife.

When you hug Peter, don't show how much you love every second of it, and love _him_.

Try not to read too much into the fact that Peter risked his career to get you out of prison, and has been putting his life, career, and freedom on the line to protect you ever since.

He could imagine Peter's rules, even more sternly enforced. Peter was the type to see a prisoner and subordinate co-worker, and absolutely, completely write off anything remotely sexual because of the power imbalance.

Do not flirt with Neal.

Do not stare at Neal.

Try not to show how happy you are when Neal stands so close to your side, you can hear his breathing.

Do not get aroused by handcuffing Neal.

Do not do anything to make Neal uncomfortable during long nights in the car, in the van, in the office, when we work alone together and quietly relish each other's company.

Try not to read too much into the fact that Neal sacrifices his independence for you every day, that he gave you Kate's engagement ring, that he risks his life and his freedom for you.

Neal frowned, and performed the mental exercise of imagining him and Peter having sex. It was hilarious, and a bit hot, and completely, excruciatingly awkward.

And then he realized he was picturing having sex with his handler as though it was a serious possibility, and snickered.

"Peter's the straightest man I've met in my life," said Neal. "He's in the dictionary under straight, and again under 'straight man in comedy sketch', and again under 'apple pie.'"

"And you're the prettiest," said Sara bluntly. "Someone would have to be a die-hard homophobe, which Peter is clearly not, to avoid considering it just a little. Seriously, snookums, you're drop-dead gorgeous and unfortunately, you know it."

"It's not a sex affair. It's a love affair," said Neal. "I don't buy the construct that closeness, and caring, and even physical affection always have to be rooted in sex. It's not Freud, it's humanity when we don't have to reproduce to survive. We're physically and emotionally attracted to each other, but we don't have any desire to fuck each other."

"Or it's so dangerous you won't allow for the desire to form," suggested Sara. "Or this is the world's longest persuit and flirtation. The story of you two couldn't have a more sexual framework if you tried."

Neal frowned. "Are you trying to sleep with me yourself, or match me up with my married straight male FBI handler?"

"It's a hot mental image, okay?"

"What??"

"Guys think lesbians are hot, right?"

"Well, yeah.... if we conveniently ignore the fact that their sexual orientation doesn't involve us in the slightest...."

"Girls are capable of thinking the picture of the world's hottest robber and a pretty damn appealing cop together is hot."

* * *

 

**NEAL**

Getting almost killed could be so worth it.

The HRT team had gotten to him first, the lead agent whipping out a knife to cut the too-tight ropes knotted around every part of his body like he was some sort of escape artist or something. Knives had been a threatening thing in the last few hours, and he yelped when the blade came his way, cutting himself short as he reminded himself this knife-and-gun-wielding menace in black was there to help him.

Peter was right behind the HRT team, and grasped the agent's wrist. "Let me. He trusts me."

Neal smiled, in delight and greeting, when a very worried Peter Burke met his eyes. "Hi."

"Hi?" Peter still looked scared. "Neal? You okay?"

Oh. Right.

"Fine. Tied up at the moment, can I call you later?" said Neal.

"They didn't beat you or anything?"

He giggled, elated that Peter was there and worried about him. "Still gentler than Sara."

Peter frowned for a moment, coming to a realization. "What'd they give you?"

"Not sure. Something in a needle. All kidnappers should do that." Neal nodded in approval. Concern for his comfort hadn’t been involved, but it’d worked, right? One little shot, and all of a sudden he was juuuuuuust fine and not, as the lead extortionist put it, “being a annoying, shootable pain in the ass.”

Peter sighed, and a warm hand came to rest on his shoulder and then ran down his arm. Neal realized something. "I'm cold. That feels really good."

Peter went to work on the knots with the knife, taking extra time to be careful and not hurt him and give him these delightful little reassuring pats. His arms and legs came loose, and he tried to sit up. It was an utter failure, pins and needles all over his body from the rudely denied circulation. But having them free and the biting ropes gone was an enormous relief, and he let out an odd little sound he hoped Peter would recognize as thanks.

Peter was petting him. Very methodically petting him. It was a little funny, but it felt nice. It was only when the fourth iteration of the question, "Any pain there? There? Neal, answer me, I need you to try and move your arm for me," that Neal realized he was being checked for injuries, not petted.

"Feels nice," he said in slight disappointment. That conversation with Sara refused to get out of his head.

Peter smiled despite himself, and accepted that answer for the rest of the exam. Neal closed his eyes in bliss. Needed to get kidnapped more often, if it meant Peter would do this. Checking every inch of him, except for certain very relevant inches, for injury with a firm grip and warm, caring touch.

"Okay," said Peter, petting him on the shoulder. "You seem fine. Fastest way off this hill to an ambulance is by helicopter. Since it's not an emergency, they're evacuating an injured agent first, okay?"

"Bad?" asked Neal. Not as fun if some innocent agent had gotten hurt.

"Nah. Tripped and twisted his ankle, cut his palm when he fell. Is it okay if another agent steps in now to check your vitals?"

"Another agent?" Neal felt affronted. "You want to leave me? I'm cold."

Peter chuckled. Another pet on the shoulder. Note to self, say more things that make Peter chuckle. "You want me to hold you, Neal?"

"Emphatically," said Neal.

Another chuckle, and Peter dragged Neal's limp form into his lap and arms, then held him with those sweet, worried little pats still happening. Peter smelled like pine and amber and leather, safe and rugged and _utterly wonderful_.

One of the scary agents in black approached and said some nice things in a friendly voice, and wrapped a couple of emergency space blankets around him and Peter. The now not so scary agent in black took readings from him, and went away.

It was warm, now, and Neal huffed a sigh of relief and comfort and joy. The mild but enormously irritating pain from pins and needles was almost gone, the ropes were gone, and Peter was _cuddling_ him. "You need to do this more."

"What, wrap you in blankets and cuddle you? Keep dreaming, Caffrey."

Neal grinned. "I totally will."

"I'm giving you back to the kidnappers." Peter's harsh retort was softened by another touch. An unmistakably tender caress on the side of his head and cheek. Peter held him, and Neal went to sleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**NEAL**

**One Month Later**

"This is what you do when we let you off anklet?" Reese Hughes was the one attacking right now, but he was merely pinch-hitting for Peter, Diana, and Clinton. "You get the suspects and an entire FBI team lost, crash a fifty thousand dollar government - owned vehicle, and then blow your cover and the whole damn case with it?"

"When you pu-pu-put it that way, it sounds bad," admitted Neal, his teeth chattering. Neal tucked numb fingers into his armpits and struggled to stop shivering. It made him look like he was trembling as well as stuttering.

"When I put it that way?" Hughes' cheeks went red, fists curling in rage. "What, you were the innocent victim in all this? You belong back in Sing Sing."

"I crashed the van because I had a gun to my head," explained Neal. "If I hadn't done that, they'd have thrown me out and taken the van with all of the weapons in it."

Peter ripped into him. "You had a gun at your head because you told them you were working for the damn Feds! Did you turn into a world-class idiot overnight?"

Neal closed his eyes, trying to ignore his clinging, heavy, water-soaked clothing and the hypothermia setting in. "I made a mistake."

"Goddamn right you did," said Peter with a vicious current in his voice. "No, mistake doesn't cut it. This is the sort of 'mistake' you get prison time for."

The rest of the feeling evaporated from Neal's body. The defiance vanished and he simply wanted to give up. "Fine."

"What do you mean, fine?"

"I screwed up. I thought Sanderson was ATF. He tricked me, and I told him, because we needed his help. The operation was going belly-up, and we needed him. I wanted to fix it badly enough that I drove off a bridge in a rainstorm in the middle of winter so they and those weapons wouldn't get free on the streets. I barely survived that, so if that isn't good enough, fine. I don't have anything else I can give."

Hughes took a turn at him. "You sound like you're trying to get us to feel sorry for you and view you as some sort of heroic martyr. Not gonna happen. You're a felon and a con artist, and you're making it very clear you belong in a cell."

"Please don't send me back to prison," said Neal quietly. It wasn't a plea, really, because pleas held hope. Hope was something he was too cold and hurting to feel. It was just an appeal. "I hate myself. I don't need to be in a cell to feel that."

The glare Peter gave him was cold, but when he turned his gaze to Hughes, it _was_ a plea.

Neal bit the inside of his lip. _Thank you, Peter._

Hughes relented. "We won't send you back to prison, but you're spending the next two weeks in the holding cells downstairs from eight to five, and you're on house arrest for three months. Learn to take some goddamn responsibility, Caffrey!"

Neal felt sick and yet resisted the urge to shrug. Being punished by the team he felt such affection for felt awful. But he wasn't going back to prison, and anything else was trivial. "Yes, sir." His voice was dull.

"Don't you dare check out like a sulky teen, Caffrey," warned Peter. "Your noble little stunt made an FBI team risk their lives going into the river to save you, and Sanderson escaped. There was nothing good about this, at all."

"Yes, sir," repeated Neal, genuinely miserable. These people had clearly never heard of making the best out of a bad situation.

"You ran!" Hughes spat it out like an epithet.

"No, I came back. That's the opposite of running," snapped Neal. "I went after Sanderson to try to catch him, to try to fix my screw-up, and when I failed I came back to face the firing squad."

"Prima donna," muttered Jones.

"I'm not sure you know what a firing squad is, Caffrey," said Peter with a look of agreeing with Jones. "I hear there are bullets involved."

 

* * *

**PETER'S OFFICE**

 

Peter held the anklet out with a wordless glare, and Neal looked away, not taking it. Unable to take shackling himself.

He got that the agents had realized it was unnecessary for them to physically take it on and off him, that it was more respectful and dignified to let Neal do it himself.

A _dignified_ symbol of complete submission.

“Caffrey.” _Put the damn anklet on now before you piss me off._

Neal just looked at him flatly.

“If wearing the anklet’s so awful, I can take care of that problem for you with a nice quiet drive to Sing Sing.”

“Put it on me yourself,” snapped Neal.

“Uh -”

“It’s so very comfortable for you to make me do it to myself. Do you have any idea how cruel that actually is?”

Peter stared at him, his face losing its hardness. “Sometimes I really don’t think you get that you’re a prisoner, Neal.”

Neal shivered. And not just because his clothing was plastered to his chilled body. “No. Once you’re a convict, you still feel like the same person you were, with a free will and feelings and rights. But the rest of the world including Peter Burke just cannot take so much as a lunch break from reminding you that you’re no longer human. Any desire to feel dignity or experience joy? Any pain or depression no matter how deep? Screw you, you have no right to be anything but miserable for the rest of your life.”

Peter finally realized how cold Neal was. He reached out to help Neal pull off his dripping suit jacket, and unbuttoned Neal’s shirt when Neal was unable to maneuver them with numb fingers. Neal flinched back when Peter started to tug the shirt open, and the agent left wordlessly. He returned a couple minutes later with a set of clothes, including an FBI sweatshirt and dry socks and a towel.

“Go change,” said Peter, his voice gentle. “I’ll turn the heat up in my office, then we’ll talk.”

Neal returned to Peter’s office, in mismatched and too-loose clothes but feeling far less outcast from the world. He sat, and Peter greeted him with a look completely devoid of anger. It was a simple acknowledgment of the presence of a friend. But the agent stood and picked the anklet up, and Neal felt himself cringe inside.

"I ran the undercover op from hell, and came back knowing I’d be yelled at by a pack of FBI agents. I went to the bathroom and changed, and came back. Why do I have to get slapped with this thing?"

“Put your foot on the chair,” ordered Peter.

Neal braced himself, and Peter snapped at him. “Now!”

Neal flinched. He didn’t mean to disobey the order, he was just paralyzed.

"Neal, am I gonna have to do this by force?" There was an iron-hard menace in Peter's voice that raised Neal's hackles.

"I've seen you walk Satchmo. You don't constantly yank on him just because there's a chain around his neck and you can. How 'bout for one goddamn hour, you treat me maybe half as well as you do your dog."

Peter's eyes widened. The anger was still there in force, but it was joined by worry. "Don't you dare make this my fault. You have about one second to put your foot on that chair."

"Yank," noted Neal with a glare.

“That’s it,” said Peter, his voice hard but lacking in anger. He grabbed the back of Neal’s shirt and the hair on the scruff of his neck and yanked him out of the chair.

“Kneel on the floor and put your hands behind your head.”

Neal went limp in Peter’s grip, his knees hitting the floor. It was the same combination of immutable orders and physical manhandling prison guards had used on him constantly. And it eased the tension in his heart. There was a safety in having all of your options removed. You couldn’t screw up any longer.

The position, too, was familiar from prison, and he laced his fingers behind his head.

Peter pulled his arms back and handcuffed him. Unlike when prison guards did it, Peter's grip was the careful touch of a friend, and he put the cuffs on loosely. That made Neal want to cry.

Peter walked away, leaving him kneeling with his hands cuffed behind him. Neal closed his eyes, bit the inside of his lip, and lowered his head. He’d been left like this for hours more than once; it was boring and painful. Peter wouldn't do that. Neal had no idea what Peter was up to, but he instinctively felt safe.

And it confused him. This wasn't anger, or punishment. He would feel that. Instead, it felt almost like Peter was trying to reassure him.

But there was anger in the fumbled grip on his ankle, and the way the hard plastic pressed against him, and a small cry escaped his throat unpremeditated. _Not like this. Please. I'll be feeling it for as long as that thing is on me._

He was suddenly desperate not to have this done by force, and even considered throwing himself down and rolling aside and pleading with Peter. _Please don't do it this way._

But Peter, astonishingly, listened to his frantic outcry. He pulled the anklet away and in its place, gave his ankle a reassuring squeeze. The phone rang, and Peter left to answer it. Neal kept his eyes focused on the floor, wondering why he couldn’t will himself out of humiliation and fear. He was safe; Peter was harsh and domineering, but anything but cruel.

* * *

 

**PETER**

Peter set the phone down, dazed. He looked at the struggling-to-cope, wet-haired, defiant, utterly confusing person kneeling before him. "They managed to catch Wilkinson at a private airstrip."

"Yay."

"He's talking. Something about having your cover blown before you ever went in. Something else about they offered you half a million dollars and a valid Australian passport to join them."

Neal was silent.

"Is that true? Was that actually a credible offer?"

Neal nodded once, his face cranked away. Peter reached out, touched him under the chin, and gently pulled Neal's head around to face him. His upper lip was trembling, and his eyes were dark, filled with pain and tears. "I'm -- not for sale."

"You turned down freedom and half a million dollars to walk into an office building and get yelled at by FBI agents?"

"Could -- the handcuffs come off now?" Neal's voice was thick and shaky.

Peter's eyes glazed over with sudden tears. He touched the side of Neal's upper arm in a grief-fueled caress, and reached into his pocket for the keys.

He didn't need them. Neal handed them back to him with a sniff, and Peter's heart broke. The message couldn't be clearer. _I'm here as your prisoner. But every second I endure this is voluntary, and I'm sacrificing things most people only dream of to do so._

It was easy to forget Neal was a rock star in the world of white collar crime, beloved and sought-after and worth millions to the business interests around him. That this was a choice, and not an easy one.

Why? Dear God, why?

The heartache and love in Neal's sensitive blue eyes answered the question. Peter knelt and curled a hand around the back of his neck and upper head, finding a home for his fingers in the tangle of wet, tangled, surprisingly soft dark hair. Neal closed his eyes and sniffed, and Peter pulled Neal's head towards him and kissed him on the forehead. A soft, loving, whimpering moan told him everything he needed to know.

Neal was in love, and knew that love was unrequited and likely to never be returned.

"I do love you, Neal," said Peter soberly. It was the seriousness of realizing he was taking an already precarious, complicated, and screwed-up relationship to a whole new level of all of those things.

"Stop right there. Please," said Neal. "I don't want to hear the 'but' that follows that."

"There is no but," whispered Peter. "I love you."

* * *

 

**NEAL**

Neal braved meeting Peter's eyes. They were soft, and gentle, and caring. Peter didn't speak, just looked right into his hurting soul. He was worried, and compassionate, and Neal gulped when he recognized the symbolism. Peter was kneeling before him.

_I love you._

Neal was stunned. For possibly the first time in his life, he was speechless. How did Peter mean that, exactly?

Very deeply was how he meant it, if the expression on the agent’s face was anything to go by. It was unshielded, bare and vulnerable.

Maybe Peter just meant, “I care a lot about you.” But that kiss…

"Why - what hurts?" asked Peter. "What am I not understanding about the anklet? Please tell me."

Neal bit the inside of his cheek. Compassion broke him down faster and more completely than anger ever could. "It's more than a piece of plastic. I feel it in so many ways - and I care so much more than you think about this job and - us. You have a whip on me, and you think it's a feather duster."

Neal was still chilled, completely rattled, and yes, scared. FBI agents worried about losing their jobs when they screwed up. Neal worried about being sent away to prison. That threat didn't bother him when it was a risk he took of his own volition. But when he was sincerely trying his best and staying within the law, it bothered him enormously.

That wasn't the only thing tormenting him. "I love the FBI," he blurted without planning. "I love this job. I don't want to lose it, or you, or Diana or Jones or even Hughes."

“Can I hold you?” asked Peter.

Neal nodded, exhaling in relief. Peter reached out and pulled him forward in a hug, and Neal’s self-control crumbled. Desperate to get out of the unpleasant kneeling position and just as desperate to be held, he collapsed in Peter’s arms.

It made him feel helpless, how effortlessly Peter seemed to see the carefully protected corner of his personality that needed reassurance, that was insecure and afraid and almost desperately craved comforting. Feelings a grown, capable man shouldn't posses.

Peter's verbal attacks ran the gamut from playful needing and "stern" talkings-to to vicious lashings that left Neal with his tail between his legs, feeling punched in the heart and wanting to cry. And almost as painful would be the regret in Peter's eyes, the regret in them right now, when he realized he'd crossed that line.

"You're too damn good at hiding your emotions,” said Peter. “You don't give me anything to go on, any indication I'm getting through, any indication you're even _contemplating_ listening, until I've hurt you so bad you can't hide the pain. And then you lash out, and run, and do idiot things and I have to yell at you and scramble to keep you out of prison without explaining to anyone I'm doing it not because I've gone soft but because it's my fault for hurting a sensitive person who relies on me."

Neal wanted to reach out and hug Peter, to try to thank him through his language of touch and subtle actions, but ended up giving him an awkward struggle and hitting him in the arm instead.  
  
Peter poked him in the ribs, and for a fleeting moment Neal was held between deep emotion and the threat of an uncontrollable fit of giggling.

"I'll try,” said Neal. “But in the moment, it's like someone holding a gun to your temple and saying, 'Trust me enough to show how scared you are.'"

The look in Peter's eyes was unmistakable: love. "You try. I'll try."

"Okay," said Neal, shaky.

Peter held the gaze. “You just blew a case the FBI had about five thousand man-hours into. You’ve been chewed out no more harshly than any FBI agent would be, and I know you take it as personally as an agent would.”

“I’m sorry,” said Neal. He did feel truly awful about it. So awful that he’d far prefer fighting over the anklet as a distraction.

Peter stretched out and patted Neal’s ankle reassuringly. It was a bit of a reach, and about as graceful as Neal’s own attempt at a hug. So Neal reached back and poked Peter in the ribs.

Peter snorted, and grabbed Neal’s hand. “No tickle FBI agent.”

“Ooog.”

Peter sighed. “I wanna give you something to think about. The worst thing we could ever do to you is leave this off, because it would mean you’re going back to prison. As long as I walk up to you and shove this up your nose after an op, you know you’re okay. It’s not a punishment, it’s more of a job well done.”

“Good con,” muttered Neal. “Actually - no, it sucks. Even for you and your bizarre ideas of social behavior, it falls short. It is a punishment. Having to wear it is literally a court-mandated punishment. I know it’s a mild one, but let’s not pretend.”

“I thought you approved of cons,” said Peter.

"Only when I'm the one approving," said Neal.

“I do like slapping you with this thing,” said Peter, pointing to the anklet discarded on the carpeted floor. “And I like poking you and watching you squirm.”

“Yeah,” muttered Neal. “It feels awesome.” So did Peter’s strong arms around him, and the warm, soft, strong body he was leaning against. The body he really shouldn’t be imagining naked.

“You’re smug,” said Peter. “You’re arrogant and slick and glitzy and above it all. You don’t feel one shred of remorse, and you - I just like one of the few things that gets under your skin a bit. Just like you running around gloating all day when we switched roles on that case.”

Neal huffed. Peter was right. If for one second the roles were reversed and he got to put an anklet on Peter, he’d probably show far less restraint than his handler when it came to rubbing it in.

Peter spoke again, his voice gentle. “I have no desire to hurt or humiliate you. I know being a prisoner and having to wear this thing is painful and it’s humiliating. I don’t know a better way to handle that than head-on and with a sense of humor.”

Neal tilted his head up and gave Peter a look he hoped reflected the intense gratitude he felt. “There isn’t one. And having to wear an anklet and getting to work with you is a dream come true compared with where I’m supposed to be right now. It’s a dream come true, period.”

“You were miserable, and all I did was ignore it and yell at you. I’m sorry.” Peter did look genuinely contrite. Neal felt bad, lashing out at Peter. The agent was one of the most inherently kind and decent people on the planet.

“I know you care,” said Neal. “And no, I don’t see that as a thing to use to my advantage, it’s a thing I cherish. Because I do, it - hurts. I let you hurt me, and it stings.”

Peter, to Neal’s great indignation, pulled away and laid Neal’s upper body on the floor. “Hey!”

“Good lord, you’re a prima donna,” muttered Peter, amused. “I’ll stick my damn jacket under your head, Your Highness.”

“Your Highness is cold and wants to be cuddled.” Neal winced internally. That sounded like a joke, and it was the most honest and vulnerable thing he’d said all night.

Peter took his jacket off, bundled it up, and grabbed a fistful of Neal’s hair to pull his head up from the floor and shove the jacket under. It was rough and undignified and so utterly _Peter_ that Neal couldn’t help giggling out loud. “Very comforting,” snarked Neal. “If I’m role-playing being abducted by a caveman.”

“Ooog, Your Highness.”

Peter shifted away and wrapped his hand around Neal’s ankle, his grip warm and sensitive.

Ah. “That’s an acceptable reason to stop cuddling me,” said Neal. “Barely.”

“Needy little pain in the ass CI,” retorted Peter. “What, I have to be all sensitive and proclaim my love _and_ cuddle you?”

“If you insist in ankleting me _and_ pulling my hair? Yep,” said Neal.

Peter was rubbing Neal’s skin with his thumb almost the way one might pet a cat; with affection and caring. Neal had absolutely no desire to pull away; it was one of the most comforting things he’d ever experienced.

He closed his eyes, going limp on the floor. Hard carpet and the buzz of fluorescent lights and the warm smell of Peter’s coat under his head felt like being in a cocoon of familiar safety. He wondered if Peter could have any idea how much this soothed his soul.

“This is part of my job,” said Peter. “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable. But I know the impact this thing has on you, and I care about the man who has to wear it. If - it were me, I would prefer to put it on myself, that’s all.”

Neal opened his eyes. “In front of other people, I’d prefer it that way. But when it’s just you ....it feels more honest when you do it. Less, ‘here, doggy, put on your own leash.’ That feels dismissive and like it’s just nothing, which, it’s actually kind of a big thing in my life. When you do it, you’re a humiliating asshole but I feel like you care.”

“I do,” said Peter softly. He rubbed Neal’s ankle some more, and Neal closed his eyes again. "Sometimes I have you do it because it would be hard for me to act like there's nothing emotional or complicated there. That's selfish. I'll stop."

"Complicated?" asked Neal.

"I love catching you, and I love pinning you down. That's animal and visceral and ugly and it's just there.”

“In other news, the sun rises in the east,” muttered Neal.

Peter swatted him on the knee. “I care about your dignity and.... try to restore something of the agency and free will I know was taken from you in prison. When I put the anklet on, I feel this incredible affection for you, it moves the hell out of me that someone who could be in another country under another name allows me to do this to him. I'm a little in awe of that.”

"If I try to stop being an ass, will you try being a little more open with me? There's no early warning system with you. I don't know I'm in sensitive territory until I've really hurt you. That's the worst feeling."

Neal nodded. "None of it matters, at the end of the day."

"It matters," said Peter. "You matter."

Peter loved it when Neal stood close to him, loved putting his arm around Neal's back, loved looking into his eyes and speaking softly, loved taunting him with foul-smelling lunch foods and forcing him into that godawful miniature prison of a surveillance van almost with the explicit intention of being there with every look and intonation and prank and touch to steady and reassure him.

An essential part of Peter seemed to need to be needed. He needed to comfort and nurture and support. He also valued dignity and strength, which was probably what he was doing with the least needy and most confident wife imaginable. He was doubtless El's rock through it all, and El was his. It was a magnificently healthy relationship, far healthier than his and Peter's.

But El probably didn't break down in his office over getting chewed out and ankleted. El didn't obey his orders, or crave his approval. Peter needed him to be a bit vulnerable, and because Peter was safe and warm and solid, Neal could be and have a part of him soothed that had never been soothed before.

* * *

 

Peter sighed, stood picked up his phone from the desk behind him when it gave an annoying buzz.

Neal sat up reluctantly and stretched. He eyed the anklet, considering grabbing it and putting it on. But he sort of wanted Peter to do it. Maybe he could entice another kiss out of the situation.

"Burke." Peter listened to the distressed, rapid verbal torrent coming from the other end of the line.

"What the hell," he said finally. "Thanks for telling me."

Hanging up, he focused his gaze on Neal. "Damn it, Neal." In one smooth jerk, he pulled Neal's shirt up, and stared at the bruises and cuts and burns on his back. "You said they questioned you. You didn't say they tortured you."

Neal winced. "It was more intimidation and hazing than torture. They suspected I was a rat and ganged up on me. Sanderson was the one who kept them from getting real about it. The way he did it, the way he looked at me.... after that I was sure he was ATF."

"You were wrong."

Neal nodded.

"Why the hell didn't you tell the paramedics after they fished out out of the river?"

"I forgot it happened," said Neal.

"You _forgot?_ " The warmth of Peter's fingertips on his cold back felt like fire. "How in the hell? This has to hurt."

"I can't feel it," said Neal. "Too cold." He was warmer now, but couldn't feel the wounds.

The fingertips explored a little more, prodding gently. "What was this, cigarette butts?"

Neal nodded.

"What'd they beat you with?" asked Peter.

"Electrical cord," said Neal. He felt dull about it inside, as numb as he was on the outside. It'd been a brief, tense confrontation, quickly deescalated by his own reactions and by Sanderson's cool head. What haunted Neal was the possibility that the adrenaline rush from the pain, danger, and successfully talking his way back into their good graces might have thrown him off his game enough to misjudge Sanderson and blow the op.

Peter whistled. "Ow. Left some nasty marks."

"Being yelled at in the office hurt worse."

That warm hand left his back and caressed the back of his head. "We care about you." Peter pulled his shirt back down over the wounds with care. "Can I take you to the doctor to have those treated?"

Peter's asking, rather than ordering, was interesting. "I really don't want to," said Neal. "Already got called prima donna twice tonight."

"You have to be photographed, for evidence," said Peter.

Neal remained silent, but nodded. Wasn't the first time. "You do it?" Wouldn't be the first time for that, either.

Peter put his hand over Neal's, nodding. "El's gone for the night. I could do the photos at your apartment, and treat those wounds myself if that'd be easier to face."

Neal closed his eyes in relief. "Yes. Please."

Peter squeezed his hand gently. "Could you handle the anklet now?"

Neal nodded.

"I've never once put it on without caring about you, Neal. If I've been hurting you, I'm very sorry."

Peter rubbed his ankle, making soothing circles with his thumb. "I'm dealing with a guy who _forgot_ he was just tortured on an undercover op. You're honestly one of the toughest and most resilient men I've ever known. So - please, if I'm holding a whip, tell me. I want to be safe, not cruel."

The tension left Neal's body in a wash. He smiled, eyes still closed. "Put the damn anklet on, Wonderful."

Peter slipped the anklet around his leg and clicked it shut. Then he answered all of Neal’s questions with one whisper-soft, tender kiss on the lips. Neal’s eyes flew open.

“Associate that with the damn anklet,” said Peter.

Neal tried to kiss him back, but the agent dodged away, eyes twinkling. He gave Neal a distinct look of triumph and _smirked_.

* * *

 

The silence on the drive to Neal's apartment was a close one, wounded but gentle and trusting, even intimate. When they got upstairs, Peter set the evidence camera and first aid kit on the table. Neal poured himself a glass of wine and handed Peter a beer. Neal drank it without sitting, or probably even tasting. Peter took a couple of sips, but didn't want anything chemical between him and reality right now.

Neal walked over to the corner that was his bedroom, and wordlessly pulled his shirt off. He saw himself in the mirror, turned to look at his back, and gulped. Then he returned to the kitchen and posed. They'd both done this enough times that it took few minutes and fewer words.

"Anything below the waist?" asked Peter.

"No."

"You lying?"

Neal shook his head with a tiny smile creasing his eyes and lips. "Too tired." He walked back to the 'bedroom' and changed into sweatpants without much care for modesty, leaving his shirt off. He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes softening at Peter approached with the first aid kit.

Pulling up a chair, Peter sat facing him, pulled on gloves, and decided to deal with his chest first. It wasn't too bad, a few welts, a couple with faint red lines where blood had been raised, then washed away in the river. The thing that made him shudder was the red, blistered burn right on the nipple. Neal could minimize all he wanted, but that qualified as torture.

Peter squirted Water-Gel burn gel onto a non-stick gauze pad, and placed it as gently as he could over the wound. Neal stiffened and stopped breathing for a moment. "Sorry," Peter whispered.

Neal started breathing again, and his eyes softened. He shook his head in protest at Peter's apology, and touched his forehead to Peter's. Peter had to resist kissing the soft lips right there in front of him, vulnerable and trusting. The moment passed, and Peter taped the pad on.

Neal gingerly stretched out on his stomach, lithe body naked down to the waist where a drawstring cinched soft gray cotton sweatpants. Again the cold water had stolen away the horror of the marks on his body, but Peter could count. Five burns that he dabbed generous blobs of the cooling ointment onto, five times feeling Neal's breath catch in remembered pain.

Eight welts, four of them deep enough to be narrow, raw, red cuts. The other four merely swollen and soon to be painful even if Neal couldn't feel them now. His gentle, vulnerable, tough friend was right that the wounds weren't serious, but what had been done to him was.

Peter rubbed antibiotic ointment into the welts and cuts with careful, soft movements, letting it melt and easing it along each mark. After a couple of minutes Neal started to relax and soon, with a couple of soft sighs and moans, went limp and closed his eyes. "Feels nice," he whispered. "Thank you."

Peter kissed him on the forehead. "You gonna be okay going to work tomorrow?"

Neal sighed and nodded. "I suppose getting locked up starts right away?"

"Probably." Peter stroked the hair on the back of his head, and kissed him again, even more softly. "It's not a prison, or even a jail. And we'll take very, very good care of you."

Neal nodded and nuzzled his face closer to Peter's. "Not worried about it. I just hate -- the anger."

"It'll pass." Peter got on the bed and laid down beside Neal, who immediately snuggled against his side, wiggling into a hug and wrapping his arms around Peter’s chest.

Peter tightened his arms around Neal’s bare back, avoiding his welts, which steered Peter’s hand deliciously close to Neal’s sweatpants-clad, rounded butt. _Dangerous territory, Burke_. "Try not to suffer. Everyone's gonna realize you did your best and it really hurt."

"Okay."

* * *

 

**NEAL**

Neal hadn’t ever been able to understand the term buzzed in relation to drinking. But he got it now. The aftermath of adrenaline, fear, and anger mixed with pure elation left him spinning, buzzing, and clinging to Peter so that he wouldn’t sort of buzz off the bed like a deranged vibrator.

Peter was cuddling him, on his bed, willingly and with his hand doing its best not to twitch in the direction of his ass. Neal was tempted to give just the right wiggle so that said hand would fall into place where it should be, but decided not to push his luck. There was still a good .05% chance Neal was misreading this.

"Hughes may realize using a personal trauma to punish you is pretty screwed up," said Peter. "He'd never lock up an agent."

Neal nuzzled his face against Peter's neck, relishing the closeness. He was at home here. "It's probably less traumatic for me then most people because it's nothing new to me. And I can always pick the lock and come see you if I get too bored."

Peter laughed. "Don't do that, please."

"Better not let me get bored, then."

"I've faced some challenges in my career, but keeping Neal Caffrey locked in a cell and not bored? That could be tough."

Neal felt something stirring between his legs, and angled his head towards Peter's lips. Peter turned his head very slightly, leaving a disappointed Neal nibbling on his cheek,where a delicious barely-forming stubble enticed further attention. "Buddy - I'm not gonna let anything happen while you're vulnerable or in shock. I'll cuddle you and love on you all night, but I'm not screwing you."

Neal sighed, disappointed and to his shock, going limp in relief. It was huge, and he wasn't up to navigating it realistically right now. Being cuddled and loved on sounded like pure heaven. His body had other ideas, though. "I'm gonna go spend a few minutes alone so this doesn't get awkward, then."

"Not awkward. Just very, very worth waiting to do right."

* * *

 

"I don't want you going through pain -- physical or emotional -- alone in a cell," said Peter.

“I won't. It won't hurt, not after this."

Neal pressed himself even tighter against Peter's warm, solid body. He wanted to be held and kissed like this forever. "I'll be fine regardless, but-" Neal lost his nerve before actually saying it. In front of Peter, right now, in an intimate setting was one thing. But when it came time for the FBI game face....

"But?" Peter's verbal nudge suggested he wouldn't let it drop.

The wounds were starting to sting and burn. Nothing too horrible, nothing he couldn't sleep through. But the thought of being in a concrete cell feeling like this, alone, being punished by his friends, was hard to take. "Could I wait a day? I'm not feeling tough."

"I'll move heaven and earth to make this easier on you," said Peter. "But I have a suggestion."

"What?"

"Go in there tomorrow, and don't act. Don't be tough. I know our people. We'll all be down to check on you, Hughes included. If you're stressed and vulnerable and hurting, that may be the key to believing this wasn't some con or angle."

"Instead, they'll think I'm trying to make them feel sorry for me. Trust the former inmate, people don't take to kindly to that. They'll just give you something to feel really sorry about."

"Don't. Act," said Peter. "Don't try to make them feel anything. Just be emotionally honest, for once in your life. Let them see _my_ Neal Caffrey."

"My Neal Caffrey." Neal grinned. "I like those words."

* * *

 

Peter woke up to Neal cuddled close to his side, head nuzzled up to Peter's chest, hugging him. Peter's heart sank. What the hell had he allowed to happen yesterday? There were uncrossable lines in this world, and while he hadn't crossed them, he'd somehow overlooked their reality. Now he had a deeply loving man lying beside him in absolute trust, and he was going to have to hurt him for the seven thousandth time.

"I'm sorry, Neal," he whispered as Neal stirred.

Neal nuzzled him, eyes closed in bliss. "Fo wha?"

Peter put a hand on his back, savoring the soft, solid warmth of his friend. He pressed hard. "I do love you, Caffrey. And we've got to forget that, and this, and yesterday."

Neal stretched a little and opened his eyes, looking up at Peter with sleepy love and mischief. "Jesus Christ, you're a romantic. Good morning, Mr. Ball of Sunshine. I forget nothing."

"Neal. Set aside I'm married to the love of my life, whom I will never, ever hurt. Set aside how many FBI policies I would be breaking, the probable end of my career, our separation, and your return to prison."

"On board with that plan," said Neal, eyes twinkling.

Peter couldn't help himself. He grinned and swatted Neal lightly on the shoulder, well away from any injuries. "You're an incorrigible pain in the ass."

Neal waggled his eyebrows up and down suggestively. "I could be."

Peter groaned and got to the point. "Yeah, if I were to rape you," he said bluntly. "Federal law. An inmate is considered unable consent to sex with a guard or law enforcement officer. There are very good reasons for that law, and much as you may have corrupted me, I draw the line at rape."

Neal sighed. "That's so completely _Peter_ of you."

"Not running around raping my friends?" Peter said dryly. "Thanks."

"No, cock-blocking via Federal law."

"That's not a nice way to sum up my life's work," said Peter, wrinkling his nose and sticking his tongue out at Neal. Whom he was still holding, and who was still luxuriating in the warm closeness of their relaxed bodies.

"I'm not oblivious," said Neal. "I don't want to jeopardize everything we love. If it's about El, you'll never see so much as an inappropriate wink out of me again. But hiding love affairs from the public is pretty much what people do."

"Raping isn't," said Peter.

"Fine," Neal sighed. "Don't rape me."

"That ....probably came out kinkier than you intended," said Peter, grinning.

"It came out exactly as kinky as I intended," retorted Neal. "But I mean it. This is about love, not sex. You want to institute a no inappropriate fondling rule until my release, fine. But I demand cuddles."

Peter closed his eyes. How dare Neal be so irresistible, and so good at advancing terrible ideas? "I'll talk to El. I have no idea how she'll react, but I have to be honest about what happened. That may be a completely terrifying conversation."

"Breaking the news to her that you refused to rape me? I could see how that'd be awkward," agreed Neal. Then his expression went deadly serious. "Last night was more than I ever hoped for. It'll never stop being a memory I treasure, whatever happens."

Peter closed his eyes momentarily to hide his overwhelming emotion, then lifted up on one elbow and kissed Neal's forehead. "Agreed."

* * *

"Caffrey." Reese Hughes' dry voice outside the cell drew Neal's attention away from his book.

"Yes, sir?" asked Neal, steeling himself.

"I have Sanderson in my office."

"Glad you caught him," said Neal.

"We didn't," said Reese. "He came in. You were right, he was ATF."

Neal sat up straight. "Wha?"

Hughes waved the attending agent over. "Open the door, please." He walked in and sat beside Neal. "Your instincts, courage, adaptability, and determination impressed him enormously. He assumed you were an agent. When he did his research and found out you were a CI, he made contact with us because he thought you deserved official recognition of how far above and beyond you went."

"Oh," said Neal. He wanted to feel gratified, and did, a little. But the thing was, he knew he'd done his best, and that his best tended to be pretty damn good. Nothing was going to ease the pain of being yelled at and punished for it, though.

"I owe you an apology, Caffrey. We all do."

Neal looked at his hands. "Apology accepted," he said with an entirely forced smile.

"I'm submitting an official commendation," said Hughes.

"Thanks."

"What's wrong?" asked Hughes, his voice softening in a way that was rare for him. "I screwed up. Tell me how to fix it."

"You guys have no idea how much this has hurt," said Neal. "Please, stop assuming ulterior motives and criminal intent in everything I do. I know my history and why you think that. But it's hard to change when you get punished for doing the right thing."

Hughes sighed. "Caffrey, we don't live in a world where you get a cookie every time you deserve it. Everyone on this planet has to deal with being underappreciated, blamed, sometimes killed, and very occasionally recognized for doing our best. That's reality when you don't steal everyone else's cookies. You have to change because you want to be proud of _yourself_ , not because of what other people think."

Oh. Neal blinked, startled by that perspective. Was that why Peter was so annoyingly proper? Because he wanted to be proud of himself?

 _I refuse to rape you_ was the most absurd line to draw when the letter of a law that didn't fit the situation was blocking the spirit of a completely consensual, easily concealed relationship. But if Peter wanted to be proud of himself.... he _would_ stand on that line, unwilling to become a rapist even by the letter of the law.

* * *

Neal was the most apologized-to person in the office that afternoon, but couldn’t bring himself to feel vindicated or okay. They’d reacted to their assumptions by shaming him, by a modern-day equivalent of putting their shitty CI in the stocks.

They were sorry. They felt awful. They wanted to support whatever trauma he was suffering from being beaten undercover.

When Diana came in bearing coffee and donuts and another apology and an offer to talk, he snapped. “The trauma I need support for is being yelled at and locked in a cell as punishment by my team. My _friends_. I’m not sure how I can look you guys in the eye now.”

“You seem able to look Peter in the eye,” she observed quietly. “I think it was done out of anger, which isn’t good. But when a suspect is feeling humiliated by something like being cuffed or searched, if they’re playing nice, I tell them it has nothing to do with them. It’s because other people have attacked agents, and there’s no reason to be humiliated by the actions of other people. We’re the ones who should be humiliated here, not you.”

“Are you?” asked Neal.

“A little, yes,” said Diana. “I didn’t do it, either. But I feel like I should have been a better investigator and a better friend.”

Neal exhaled, relieved. She was right. This wasn’t his to cringe over. It was theirs. He smiled, and meant it. “Thanks. You just made up some serious ‘good friend’ points.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I knew you were a sucker for strawberry-filled with glaze.”

* * *

Neal hooked a finger in Peter’s belt when they got off the elevator and he started to walk away. He tugged the agent towards him, ignoring Peter’s flushed cheeks and frantically raised eyebrows.

“Just so you know?” said Neal. “I’m pretty good at chasing people too. May the best con win.”


End file.
